When I was seventeen my boyfriend punched me in the faceHe said my platform boots made me too tallI recoiled at first,shocked at the overt manifestation of violence with which he invoked in a feverish attempt to make me small

Then I hit him back

And vowed that I would let no man strike me againAnd after all was said and done and blood was let in bathroom stallsI wore those boots with pride as I walked /part dragged myself through the next year of my lifeFierce. I repeated like a record needle hitting fine cat hair

​Maybe I was slow to the rollBecause the pride I carried was measured at my refusal to harbor someone’s fist on my skinAnd I did not realize that They [Man] did strike…again and again and againWith words and gropes and looks and uninvited hands on hips as I danced at the shows

Always these hungry, entitled jabs insisting for our vulnerable bodiesTo be smallerTo refuse boots that make you tallerTo acquiesce because your strength should be born in the ability to nurture fragile egosCaught in a trap of masculinity that your own height wishes to eradicate from the worlds they push their flesh uponWhile they [perhaps subconsciously?] wrestle to take you down

And here’s the part of the conversation that I really hope you hearI do not offer this small piece of recollection to encourage pity or fearBut reflection

Let me be clearWe have sped our trajectory into an abyssCreated by our own inabilities to recognize the violence inherent in the everydayOur refusal to accept that we are implicit in conquest when we are silent in the face of such violenceAnd violence is not solely a fist on a face

Violence is in this profoundly disturbing insistence on homogenous beautyThat asks bodies to break themselvesTo remove ribs so that width may be deterredTo lighten skin so that radiance can be reified as that which only certain hues may haveTo widen eyes so that we may look innocent and curious as opposed to infuriated and awakened

Violence is on the streets and in the bars and in the homes and bedroomsWhen bodies are forcibly maneuvered into particular spaces designed for shittingWhen dancing becomes dangerous, an interpretation of invitation to touch that form which never asked for such intrusionsWhen words are screamed from windows rolled downWhen keys are clenched in fists because – and please don’t make me repeat this again –

Wom/e/y/n are fucking scared to walk home alone at night and you ask of us to make sure we keep ourselves safe instead of demanding a stop to violence that makes hands shake even when they are holding mace​Violence is on the tip of our tongues always as we cut ourselves downConsigned to the myriad of ways that the everyday tells us toHUSHCROSS YOUR LEGSDON’T CUSS

Violence is the person standing in the hot shower screaming that they’ve survivedWater scorching red tendrils on the skinBecause the pain is both a reminder that they are alive and a slight consent to the trauma that repeats to them that they must burn

Violence is in the tens of thousands living on the streetKept from sleeping on benches or in doorways to shield themselves from the rainBy sharp metal spikes that would puncture such weary skinViolence is in the constant craving of property and profit that has pushed these bodies to the marginsAnd the eyes that anxiously avoid their gaze when they stand with their cardboard sign or approach asking if you might spare a dime or even, god forbid, just a moment of your time

Violence is in the people on the street who giggle or stand idly byAs a man runs after a woman and locks her neck as he pulls her hair

Violence is in the blame we place on bodies without a stateThis fucking wonder wall we keep hearing so damn much aboutSome giggle or roll their eyes and make some comment about the world going to hellOthers raise their fists and scream YES, YESKeep them outRefusing to recognize that the wall has deflected them too

Violence is in the conversation that we aren’t havingThe one where a presidential nominee is about to stand in courtFor raping a young girl (and this isn’t the first)

Violence is in the media spinHow quickly we forgetWeapons of mass destructionWars waged on liesSeptember 11 …1973Peace prizes wrapped in drones​Violence is in our airProgrammed in our speechIn the exasperation in writing about something so damn pervasive that you cannot even begin to attend to every form of pain that you read, see, or hear about each day

It's greatest victory our distance from one another following repeated attempts to nurture a culture of fearPredicated on mythos formulated by hierarchies that the reinforce this illusion of superiorityThat asksNo…DemandsThat so many of usDivided by differences that if spoken about could attack ignoranceAvoid boots that make us taller

I have a dog named Serenity. She’s going to be 12 years old soon, and she’s been my familiar, faithful companion, partner in crime, and grounding force for all of those 12 years; save for the first six weeks of her life, which she spent holed up in a cold garage in a NY winter getting barely enough to eat from her mother’s overworked form (she was born into a litter of 13).

As her age indicates – babe is getting old. Real old. And I am here watching the changes take her over and alter her from the fun-loving, dancing *yes, she danced, her favorite song is the White Stipes’s “Hotel Yorba,* excitable dog to a very slow, sometimes unsteady, and often unsure senior dog that requires a special ritual to coax up the front stairs of our apartment building. Serenity and I have both had serious changes in our lives as of late – for the first time in my 33 years we live alone together, and we also live without a generous backyard for her to roam free. This means many things for us – first, any plans I make must consider arrangement of dog care (something my housemates were always awesome about helping with), the dog care I must arrange requires that she knows the individual and that the individual is not only patient but kind, and (my favorite) – we have many more walks together.

Being that these changes are new to us, moving into a home of our own on July 1, they are still fresh and, despite how simple it all sounds above, they are also quite profound. They have changed me.

It all began shortly after moving in – always having a yard made me inattentive to Serenity’s pace. As I hooked the leash on her and brought her to the street in blazing, humid, July sun I realized she had grown slow. Real, real slow. My mind was on the dissertation I was writing, the boxes that had to be unpacked, the summer course I was teaching, the wedding I was soon to officiate, the job market I needed to enter, and the depressing deflation of my bank account. Serenity’s was on the flowers, the blades of grass that looked scrumptious to her, and the occasional squirrel that would scurry up a tree.

Let me reiterate – even without these distractions – she was walking slow. Real slow. It would take us 25 minutes to get around a block that would take me about 5 on my own. We are walking, I am staring into my phone, the leash is lax. Suddenly Serenity stops and I feel a pull behind me. She was sniffing some flowers in a corner bed of a driveway entrance. I smile, return to my phone. Time. Keeps. Ticking. She is still sniffing. Dissertation, dissertation, wedding ceremony, cover letter. She’s still smelling and it’s been 10 minutes and we haven’t even gone to the end of the first street of the block. Cover letter, dissertation, wedding ceremony, grading. I feel my impatience growing. Serenity starts walking. Thank goddess, I think. She is slow. Real slow. We walk for a couple of minutes, the leash grows taunt again. This time it’s grass that she’s sniffing. I think she might be looking for toads, too. I’ve put away my phone by now and instead I am mapping out how I want to finish my literature review. I look at her and smile. She’s always been happiest outdoors. This pattern continues throughout our morning walk. I realized quickly that the time I allocated for walks would need to be doubled. The hour would turn into two, maybe more. This was distressing.

Let me step back here and explain something. I am an irritating, sometimes overbearing, and almost always highstrung perfectionist. I am an archetypal overachiever who gets a natural high from being stretched far too thin and proving to myself again and again that I can do anything and everything asked of me. I am often applauded for my ability to get shit done. Yet it comes at a cost, symbolized here by my impatience at the beautiful dog by my side who just wanted to smell some flowers and hunt for some toads. This wonderful creature who has, above all things, always just loved me. This familiar who has sat at the side of every writing desk I’ve had while I worked for hours – or waited just inside the door for me to come home. And here I was wondering how much her long walks would set me back from my rather aggressive summer schedule. I realized this and felt an immediate shame. I dislike shame, it accompanies guilt, and I think guilt is the most useless of feelings and the most imprisoning too.

So, as we get halfway through our walk, pup starts panting. She has bad hips now and she needs breaks. We walked into the community garden, she laid down, and I stared at her. I was overwhelmed with so many feelings, but in front of the to-do list was the overwhelming fact that my dog had aged. My dog didn’t have much time left, and these walks were her treasures. This was the only way I could make the time she had even better for her. And I was impatient about her desire to smell some fucking flowers. So I made the resolution that when pup and I walked I, too, would take a peek at everything that caught her interest and to-do list be damned, we would take our time. This wasn’t a choice; it was a demand. Serenity couldn’t walk any other way.

So, we finish our walk and of course I go right home and rearrange my planner to include longer strolls through the community gardens.

Our month turns into August and I’ve come to look forward to our strolls – and (not shocking) everything was still getting done despite the extra time I had spent. I started using my phone as a portable and less powerful boom box, playing music while we took our time. Granted, I am not perfect, and there were moments I still wished we could be faster or my work could be even more portable than it already is (quite a wish considering I can literally do my job from anywhere), but overall these walks became treasures in my day too. I worked hard to check out of everything and just be there with her and enjoy what she was enjoying.

Then the terrifying happened, and it happened far sooner than I anticipated. Serenity and I embarked on our morning walk on a Wednesday in the third week of August. She did her business quickly and we were in route to the community garden. Then she fell. She fell in a puddle of mud. Her eyes started twitching side to side. Her whole body was shaking. She was panting. Her chest was heaving. I unhooked her leash, my own breath quickening and panic setting in, and I lifted her as best as I could out of the mud and into the grass. Serenity weighs 90 pounds, and a full lift is something I can’t do with her. I got her in the grass and phoned the vet. They told me to come in right away. Except Serenity could not walk. She could not even sit up. She would try, and she would fall. I told them I would do the best I could and will call and keep them posted. My car was parked at the other end of the block, we were outside, and I couldn’t leave her there shaking with her eyes lolling.

Luckily a dear friend lives five minutes away, I texted her and she said she would be over right away. I was sitting on the grass petting Serenity, telling her I loved her, and rubbing her belly. She was slightly responsive, but she still couldn’t do much more than move her head. I was convinced she was dying. I thought it was a heart attack or a stroke. I waited on my friend while I fought back tears and told her over and over that I loved her and I wouldn’t leave her. “Mommy’s here” I said over and over. It was all I could do.

She couldn’t move. I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t lift her. I couldn’t imagine life without her. I thought I was losing her. I can’t explain those moments that I waited there with her, certain I was comforting her as she slowly left this world and hating the thought of a world without her. It was hell. I wanted more walks and more flowers and more tail wags when I came home. I wanted more squirrel hunts and feather collecting. I wanted more lake dips. I wanted more long car rides with her nose hanging out the window (another gradual change as her age prevented her from a full body dip in the wind). I wanted so many of the things I was impatient over, and I wanted them more than anything else. A job would come, the dissertation was going to get finished, and sooner or later (preferably sooner) I would have a comfortable wage again. I knew this with all of me.

What I would never have again, if she left, were those walks or the warm circle dance that would commence once she finally got the strength to stand up after I came home. All of this ran through me. I just kept telling her I loved her. I didn’t know what else to do. I asked her to hold on. I fought back more tears. My friend arrived (by now it had been about 45 minutes since the fall), sat with Serenity, and I rushed to get my car and pull it to where she lay. My friend helped me get pup in the car. She still couldn’t stand. We got her into the backseat because my dear soul sister literally laid down as we rolled my dog’s heavy body over her – I will never forget that. Then I was off to the vet, thinking all the while that they were going to tell me that if it isn’t cardiovascular than it’s some kind of progressive, irreparable brain tumor. I was hopeful we could fix it, but terrified it wouldn’t be possible and that this was pup’s last car ride.

It wasn’t.

Pup suffered from issues with a cranial nerve as a result of hypothyroidism. Now, nearly two weeks since being placed on her thyroid pills, she’s a different dog. She’s regained a great deal of energy, her eyes have a shine I haven’t seen in a couple of years, and she’s excitable once again.

Yet I am fully aware of her mortality. Her finitude always lurking now, especially given the vet’s news that he believes she has progressive nerve disintegration in her hips that will, in time, make it impossible for her to control her bladder or bowels. And when that happens I will take pup in and hold her while she goes to sleep knowing that I did the best that I could, even when it wasn’t good enough and even when my impatience got the better of me. That is something I have to deal with and watch for over the coming months (and indeed I hope years).

I am trying not to treat this like a waiting game, but instead treat it as a moment where the reality of life in all of its disastrous beauty became very certain to me. As much as I came to like our walks before, they are now my favorite parts of the day. Because Serenity taught me of my own mortality, too. Sure, I knew this – we all do, but we deny this as much as possible because it hurts. It is the deep suffering that renders us truly helpless … we lose what we love or what we love loses us, and it is – for the most part – deeply unpredictable and always, always too soon.

Serenity also taught me of my flaws. She showed me how little of what I should say I have actually said. She showed me how I have a tendency to fill air with things – small talk or theoretical chatter or some such - in an effort to avoid what I do think. She showed me that I have serious trouble being vulnerable, letting people in, and trusting. My impatience often leads me to say something like “I don’t have time for this, next” or “I’ve got too much going on to deal with this.” Ya know, sometimes you need to say that. Sometimes you have to move on. Sometimes, though, you need patience. Sometimes you need to understand that not everyone rushes through the world in conquest of their next great goal and that’s good. Sometimes, as scared as you are to say what you really need to say, the next person over is even more afraid.

I can’t speak for everyone, but I know I’ve lost good people because of my inability to let go of my to-do list. There’s someone out there right now who really deserve to hear how much they mean to me and I have STILL remained mute because I am fighting desperately against my own fragility. Yet, like Serenity showed me with her slow pace, fragility exists and sometimes that slow down – as painful and restrictive as it can be – opens us to entirely new perspectives and new ways of living and of embodiment. I can focus on how much I am not getting done or I can take a look at how much more of the world I see now. How much more I feel because Serenity forced me to slow down.

To be here now, to be who you are now, to say your truth now – is far more terrifying to me than the labor I produce for goals, income, and a personal sense of fulfillment. Yet the now is also fleeting, and just as the flowers that Serenity loves so much are now in full bloom, they too are wilting. They’ll likely be reborn after the snow leaves, but even that is an uncertainty. Life is fragile and fierce and unpredictable. We are taught to conceal love (even that terrible angel that lives at the heart of love – those devils of loss) – when it’s what we should take more chances on.

Note here, please, that I am not talking about ideal, heteronormative love that is dramatically enhanced in Nicholas Sparks films. I am talking about the gnarly, ragged, laborious, terrifying, drastic, uncertain beast with razor teeth. I am talking about love as it pertains to the self, to those we care for, to the world we look at every day, to the production of our labor, hell – even to the coffee we drink. I am talking about love as the thing that fucks us up with inflamed passions and considerations just as it relieves us from fear while simultaneously delivering us to it. I am talking about the love that changes who we are, that gets deep inside and stays there. I am talking about that thing about a person, a place, or a spot that comes out of nowhere makes us want it because it speaks to us, but leaves us altered by its mere existence. It challenges who we are, and hopefully in a way that makes us better.

I feel this love for Serenity, of course. I feel it for many people, too, and for a handful of beautiful places. I feel it for the work that I do. To this point I have expressed gratitude for all of these things, and while that gratitude was and is sincere, I rarely reflect on how fleeting it is, largely because I am always focused on the something else I have to work for. I won’t stop focusing on that future, ever. It’s who I am and as I’ve been forced into more self-reflection I’ve come to really embrace that part of me … the relentless visionary. Yet I am making more concentrated efforts to step back from that, to step into a moment where I can simply be and exist. I am taking more chances, doing things that scare the shit out of me, and laughing more. I am also allowing the darker parts of me to be what they are without excuses or guilt. I rage more and I create more. I have taken more adventures in the last few months than I have in the years that preceded the summer of 2016 combined. I am overbearingly honest with my affections for people at times, noting how much I have said I love you over this summer than the years previous. I tell people when I admire them. I talk to more strangers. I close my eyes and open my arms when there is a warm breeze. I even spend more time alone doing nothing more than reflecting on my day or on my week or trying to figure out exactly why I feel the way I do at that moment.

This change was happening before pup fell, because my own life circumstances demanded it for reasons of survival. But her fall intensified it. Now I am working on being mindful to keep these trends alive and healthy because, really, the finitude is easy to displace. We shouldn’t linger on it, but we should accept it and allow it to alter how we do this thing we call life.

Maybe, if we are lucky, it means we will slow down and spend more time watering something rather than plucking it and watching for petals to turn brown under the force of our decoration.

Things are going to get done, folks. Or they won’t. But today is here. It might be our last car ride, and it might not. But, for the most part, many of us do get to choose if we just roll through the stop sign or really take a moment to pause. Sometimes we need to roll, and other times we don't just have to stop - we have to pull the emergency brake, too. The key is knowing when to do which, and not being so upset should you choose the one that didn't work for you (but vow to remedy it the next time around if possible).

I hope you take the right kind of time today, that vulnerable time. I hope you be kind today…and always listen to the animals.

Head laid back against wooden beamsA million little fires burning across vast escapes of the seaAnd either here nor there or if or couldWill change the roads we've walked and the millions of ghosts we've whispered our fears to

Nor can the force of our faith make manifest the many ways we plea for the universe or great unknown to show us that we are not alone

In the end you die like you dream, you say over and over, wishing with every last bit of every muscle and fiber to be seen ...to change the course of so many herstories

But our wishes are empty words on air that they never bear witness to

Our pride a beast following little traumas that stack up like a dam holding back fierce waters that flow like menstrual baptismsHolding onto anything and everything​Thinking all of life or this moment or maybe the essence of our being comes down to the question of whether another whiskey will be fatal to the peace of mind you have - or pretend to have after the end of it all.

In June of 2015 I had a large fold of skin removed from my lower abdomen following a 140 pound weight loss that I had maintained for eight years. When the insurance company called me to inform me of my approval (following a very long battle) I was ecstatic, but I was also entrenched in a strange guilt surrounding my own superficiality. Why was this removal so important to me? Did it pander to cultural discourses regarding acceptable bodies? How could I encourage others to critically dispute negative ideological messages about the body/worth if I, myself, was going to have a procedure that was often regarded as cosmetic in nature. Granted, removal of the skin would decrease the rashes I would get, but even this seemed more an excuse to camouflage the ways in which my self-worth and self-preservation were wrapped up inside of my body image.

As previous blogs have detailed – I was obese for the majority of my life. To summarize – at 5 years old I weighed 120 pounds. I graduated high school at well over 300. I am 5’5”. The way my body maneuvered in society largely impacted the way I was treated. As I am sure many fellow obese folks can testify – obesity is a form of monstrosity in our current society, and people are often quite eager to remind you of such. In school I endured an intense form of bullying by many of my peers – their words were sharp and I can spend hours recalling them before you, as cruelty is a blade that leaves scars. If it wasn’t through words it was through stares and slight microagressions (oinking or mooing when you walked by for example). I do not write this to miscontextualize – not everyone was so venomous. This carried on until I lost the weight – such reminders of my worth as dictated by my girth were reiterated. on streets, in the stores I worked, and sometimes in my own home. So I had attached quite a herstory to that skin fold that hung (it was not the only one, I have many more).

Somehow having the surgery felt as if I was supporting this hurtful and ignorant ordering of human beings based on superficial markers of beauty that are reiterated throughout society to – in my personal opinion – strip from us the confidence we need to be badass. To be strong in our skin. To know the value of our being. When we are separated from these things, and encouraged to consume more product to fulfill that hole that results from a disassociation spurred by ignorance, we are often not a whole force to be reckoned with. To categorize and compartmentalize human beings repeatedly is to separate us from one another, but it is also an attempt to separate us from our selves. In my case, and I do not take pride in writing this, it worked on many levels. I do not mean to simplify my experiences – it was not only treatment based on my body that injured me – as it rarely is for anyone, but that was certainly a key factor. Nor am I alone.

In writing this blog I have had literally dozens of individuals reach out to me to express similarities they’ve encountered on their life paths – even if the source wasn’t their waist line. I think reaching out was an attempt for them to have their pain seen as something real and valid as opposed to something that should be silenced in the face of appearing one-dimensional, shallow, or vulnerable. To each of you that reached out – I see you, and you are real to me. I thank you. It is for you that I am now writing this, and – while posting these blogs isn’t as easy as a mere copy and paste – it is to validate my experiences through voice. I am, quite simply, tired of hiding the various ways we struggle only to romanticize the times when we overcome as they are championed by popular conceptualizations of success. For example, my weight loss is often lauded. I worked hard for it and I laud it myself as a huge milestone that changed my life for various reasons – the size of my thighs or breasts or waist or arms actually being far less valuable to me than some of the other healings I experienced. There were far more victories in learning about my body and rediscovering it in tender moments when it failed me (largely due to a near invisible disability in my left leg that has caused some issues with my right leg due to the weight imbalance) than there was in looking in the mirror. During those times I had to nurture myself. When I was focused solely on the scale or measurements there was far less nurturing. There was only that imagined end goal, and sometimes – most of the time – I was incredibly cruel and unforgiving in regards to that. I want to take a moment to celebrate the discovery of one’s body as a vehicle that literally carries you in various manifestations, that astounds you, that moves you through this world to experience so many glories and devastations. I do not want to celebrate the body as that which comes closer to an imagined ideal. But to undo this ideological mindfuck we have to return to healing, which takes place on levels of the body, mind, and spirit. We can’t disentangle these, regardless of how easy it is to focus only on one.

I’m going to slip into a very particular discussion of healing now – the healing following my surgery in June 2016. As mentioned – this surgery was quite an existential-like crisis for me. I was also living in a small town in Pennsylvania where I had resided only a couple of years. I was also going through a divorce that was initiated in the beginning of 2015. The divorce kept me in Pennsylvania much more than I had previously stayed around, as going back to the city I love carried complex and conflicting thoughts and memories that felt overwhelming at best. So, the surgery was scheduled at a hospital in this small town, where I had precious little community as my existence was largely a work-based one and – let’s be real – largely rural Pennsylvania isn’t a metropolis of culture for folks that have always existed on the fringe. I was – very frankly – terrified of going through this alone. I also felt bound in this fear as I certainly didn’t want to burden anyone with the guilt of me being alone; it felt far too much to ask someone to take the week to spend with me. I desperately missed my home in Buffalo and the various communities I belonged to there. This fear reminded me of how home is so very much more than a house, and how healing is very much dependent on the feeling of some kind of space that is warm and real to you – where you can exist fully as you are at that moment. Where you can reach out to someone who intimately knows your many stories and no background is needed, because they’ll be able to weave the necessary threads to understand why your love, fear, pain, joy is so palpable at that moment. This longing for home, which I knew was not fully accessible to me in the ways it once was, existed in my mind as I moved closer and closer to the surgery. Would this physical healing just serve to remind me of how much I longed for a different place and, if so, how would that impact my mind and my spirit?

It is with great joy that I report that this loneliness I feared so deeply did not happen. My dear friend, my soul sister, my baby bird Jenna spent the first 10 days following my surgery by my side. She drove down from Buffalo. In this time, when I could barely walk or stand, she cooked for me, helped me into the shower (quite the process given the drains inserted into my vagina that had to be draped onto a hanger and hung on the rod), and most importantly made it possible for me to have some semblance of independence. She drove me to the farmer’s market, where she would walk ever slowly by my side (very slowly), we painted together and planted for the summer solstice, we found a magical sunset spot that we would drive to at dusk. We picnicked in parks. This little piece of home came to me, was patient with me, and understood me well enough to know that if I was to heal I could not be coddled in demands to stay on the couch. Nor was that the only manifestation of home that traveled. My dear friend Ashley called me in the hospital – her voice beaming on the other end. Friends texted daily. My family sent cards. The love traveled, and it was necessary to my process – in all forms of mind and body and spirit – that it did. We were halfway through the year of 2015 and already it was one of the worst that I had known. While this time of play was inspired by a very wounded body, my soul needed it more.

Nor can I obscure the very amazing ways that I was blessed with a reminder of my worth and visibility by people in this small town that felt so cold to me. During this time my friend Jose took me grocery shopping, came by to walk my dog with me (at 80 pounds it was some time before I could walk her myself), drove me out to parks, and even walked patiently with me during my first hike following the surgery (granted, it was a month later and a baby path but damn it was I slow). Other colleagues made time to act as a support system for me without treating me as if I could do nothing on my own. Steve was quick to visit. Enica and I drank margaritas and giggled and got lost in stationary aisles of large stores, Akshaya lovingly made me enough delicious homemade food to get me through not one but two weeks and gifted me with a petit rose bush lives now in my bedroom windowsill. Kelly drove me to follow-up doctor appointments, helped me walk Serenity, and carried my laundry basket up and down the stairs for me. The faculty of my college sent me a gorgeous houseplant (also now residing in my bedroom). Many people texted or emailed me through Facebook. Colleagues from other departments followed my blog and emailed me. Faculty from my previous institution did the same.

I mention all of this here because showing up matters – regardless of the way you show up. Showing up fights those little demons that come out when we are alone, those demons that are in some way the result of the various cruelties, tragedies, and losses we live through. Healing can take place in solitude, I know because I am in the process right now and have been many times before. Yet something beautiful is born when people make the time. They validate you as a human. They, even if not overtly, speak to your special place in this world. These actions bite back against the many insecurities we have accumulated. They show us that not only are we real and whole and beautiful to these gorgeous beings who we have welcomed into our world, but also that our healing is not a matter that we alone are impacted by. That we have work to do here and others also wish for us to see it through. These actions, regardless of how small, are soul food. They are a powerful antidote to many of the poisons we are all in some way working through. I would have healed physically from this surgery were these gifts not offered to me – this I know. But the powerful transitions I experienced in the summer and fall of 2015 – some tied to my body and my surgery and others tied to various facets that are intra-related but not codependent – were easier for me to navigate, because I would often return to the many beautiful ways people do show up when healing needs to happen.

I know in writing this I probably left something out. If it was you -- please email me so I can thank you profusely. But before I close I do wish to say one more thing. Healing is an ongoing process. It doesn’t exist in a vacuum and, as I have said, it is happening through many levels and inspired by many things. I like to think that we are all always healing in some form or another – that is the nature of being in a world that is so broken and cruel. When you reach out – when you are present – when you say a kind word or send a lovely card or grab a cup of coffee with someone - you are likely assisting them in some way. You are part of their healing journey. You are a part of giving at least a wee bit of hope. When you do these things you are showing, quite literally, that someone is on your mind just because they are them and they’ve earned a space in your thoughts – and that is another act of showing someone that they are real and whole -- they are not the various things we’ve been programmed to categorize folks into. To those who have done and continue to do this for me – thank you. Truly. Thank you.

It's a secret Don't tell

How dare I be so bold as to be so vulnerable as to admit that when I love it gets in my bones so deeply it's like molten marrow made of a hungry burn eating its way inside from so far without

You existed thereYou and he and she and themWhom I have loved with every ounce of my erotic eccentricities

Born of calcium deposits found on stars flying through dimensionsWild, wild laughing My voice comes through the wallsThick and full and sticky like syrup seeping slowly from between the crevices in your form

I can love that deeply, so quickly, so full

I am at the brimAnd time has no bearing here.Time has no space to whisper to me of rationality,Because time is both a blink and an eternity when you're made of EverythingSimultaneously we are nothing at all

Because we can't place a nameto that which is composed of - while having the power to obliterate - Everything

Like a whisper on a brutal wind that shakes seeds from the poppies to spread A violent breeze roaring

While you sit on a fleece blanket in graveyards of the glorious dead who they re-enact to celebrate

And you feel the weight of a brilliant but stunted mind who still believes that- despite them being the Everything -They are nothing…Slowly crumbling to the lowest reaches of the earth forgotten and alone because they are unseen

Except they are the Everything

And their mighty love is resting on your lap and worlds fall away

Excising even the pesky demons of war that surround the corners of your peripheral

Their mighty head is resting on you and you think

"God knows I’m good,"except you never really believed in this monolithic authority​But it feels like a strange and unknowable divine intervention that voice out loud cannot create

To be this so furiously in love with Everything in this blink of a stretch of an eternity

And somewhere in the folds between what we are told to be and what exists so raw like sugar cane in our soulWe know….

Today the Willard Preacher decided it was time he addressed campus sexual assault. Now, for those who do not attend Penn State (or perhaps do and in some shocking way have managed to avoid the Preacher): The Preacher is a man who stands outside of the Willard building and – you guessed it – preaches. His topics are always controversial and he usually stands on the side of a fence I wouldn’t even toss a chicken bone to. This semester he has already discussed “the virgin flock” that we must reinstate, transgender individuals, and pre-marital sex (refer to virgin flock) among others. Stationed next to the Willard Preacher was a table of feminists from our campus who were handing out free condoms and asking folks to take photos with a sign as to why they need feminism. One of these feminists was wearing a shirt that says “Only Do IT With Consent.” This opened the door for the Willard Preacher to assert, with quite an air of condescension I must add, that feminists believe all men are rapists. The sermon quickly wound itself into various circles – with the Preacher first stating something to the effect that men are visually stimulated and if you’re dressed like a “prostitute” a man will take it because, hey, at least in this case he doesn’t have to pay for it, right? He also said something to the effect of women not being able to tell men not to rape because men won’t listen because, hey, do we expect them [Men] to act like women and just sit there and take it? Among all of this were infuriating contradictions (reference the feminists believing that all men are rapists above). But, I really don’t want to talk about the Preacher anymore because – really – he did something miraculous here. Before I move away from the topic of him please note that it is highly unlikely I will utilize the Preacher and miraculous in the same sentence again because I consider his words downright blasphemous, but alas – it happened here. What did he do? He got an entire population talking about sexual assault. About rape. There were folks defending the Preacher – though what they were defending I will never know because he moved back and forth between arguments so often it was like watching the Matrix on slow-mo. There were folks trying to set the record straight as to what it means when we use phrases like “rape culture.” There were folks explaining the importance of the Consent tshirt. I wasn’t silent, nor was I given the attention the white man with a suit and tie was given when he spoke. This doesn’t escape my notice, but it isn’t the center of the story. For those who did hear me (they didn’t fall silent in the way they did for the Man and make no mistake he still has my gratitude for speaking up) – some came to me. Some decided it was time to have a conversation with someone other than the Preacher. I was abashed and hurt at what I heard. I wasn’t surprised. I am angry that I wasn’t surprised, but there we are. Why wasn’t I surprised? Because I was advocating that it is time we change the conversation. I was advocating that we stop saying women must take precaution and avoid drinks or “trap” frats or provocative clothing. I was advocating that we break this all down to “don’t rape.” A few young men and one young woman came to me. Here is a paraphrase of what they said: But we live in a society where we are told not to rape every day. It still happens. So we can’t just ask men not to rape because, clearly, they hear it every day. We have to ask women to help out too. (Read: ladies, god forbid you dress your body how you want. Ladies, stop drinking. LADIES! HOW DARE YOU HAVE ENOUGH FAITH IN ANOTHER HUMAN BEING AS TO THINK THAT IF YOU GET DRUNK THEY WON’T JUST FUCK YOU WITHOUT CONSENT ON THE SPOT!?) But if women were cautious they would stop going to frat parties and rape wouldn’t happen. But women rape people too. Women touch little babies. But But But … But let’s take a closer look at these sentiments, friends. Because I couldn’t quite get to each when I (literally) had five or six voices coming at me at one time and, quite frankly, I was overwhelmed. We live in a society where rape is taboo. It is bad. True. No one disputes that it is SAID. But let’s look at what is shown. Let’s look at the hypersexualization of our mass media where rape happens and it is glamourized or simply undiscussed. Shit, Game of Thrones changed the story for Cersei could be raped for a visual audience. We consume music videos where women are spanked, stripped down, pushed onto counters, and sometimes literally hung. Freshman enter college campuses where frat houses hang banners that “welcome daughters *wink wink*” as a funny joke. We see advertisements that seek to make women smaller or lighter (yes, whiter) – may it be their pose or their size – so they can shrink down in on themselves and suggest compliance. These suggest a brand of femininity that says passion, anger, intelligence is not for women unless they are “those women” (and please understand that there are race and class connotations with that phrase). They [women] should aspire to compliance. While none of these sources are individually saying that rape is good they are – collectively – creating and reinforcing a picture that positions women as delicious little cookies for consumption. I am not merely talking about objectification here – I am talking about the stripping away of humanity as each body becomes another tool or toy for the pleasure of the audience, fit for domination. Unfit for humanity. The bodies that are outliers, the misfits, are often positioned at the end of a very cruel joke. So if they can’t be sexually consumed they can at least be consumed as a laughing matter. This all points to the consumption of women’s bodies, because we all know that what we see and hear doesn’t indicate most women as having minds (reference the above statement where the crowd fell silent for the man but damn, what does a woman have to say about sexual assault). So, yeah, we say rape is bad. We show that domination is good. We show a field with two (and only two) sexes at either end of a green that enforces and reinforces what appears to be inherent differences. One of those differences being that men take and women give. Duh. When women don’t give can we place any blame when they will be forcibly taken? The obvious, politically correct answer is – damn right, we can. What I heard with the aforementioned serious of buts is – no, we can’t place blame unless we are placing blame on HER. Because if she didn’t wanna give it she shouldn’t show….well, anything or up anywhere. I should mention here that, when I tried to present this argument, I was told that as a woman I have no idea what a man is shown every day – nor do I have any idea what men go through. Fair enough, but let’s say that you [Man] have no idea what it is like for a woman to stand in the center of five talking mouths – all interrupting – all the while knowing that (because I am woman) THIS HAPPENS EVERY DAMN DAY. And [Man] I’m trying not to blame you. I’m trying to say I expect that men are capable of more than drooling every time they catch a glimpse of a thigh. But please, keep interrupting me. Keep shutting up when the white, older man in a suit and tie has something to say. Keep reinforcing for me (but definitely not for you) that while I can’t say what it is like to be a man I can show you that you’ve interrupted me five different times but fell silent the minute that my Man Savior showed up to tell you that what I have to say is righteous, Man. Now, this ties to our second point of contention; You say that women just have to be cautious because it is the world that we live in. First, I believe in a better world. I believe it’s a lot of work and a good deal of discomfort for those who have an automatic defense built up because of various privileges they are afforded. But, because you want to talk caution, let’s get into it. As you so clearly described, you have no idea what it’s like to be a woman. You don’t know the precautions we DO take because we know that rape culture DOES live here. We, as women, are almost always programmed to fear.

I, personally, carry my keys in a specific way when I walk. I let someone know where I am whenever I am out late. I clutch my cup carefully to my chest and prepare my own drink when in unfamiliar surroundings. And man, I am tired. I am so damn cautious that if I were any more cautious I would be living in a monastery and wearing not one but two chastity belts. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US? Do you want us to insert barbed devices into our vaginas? Do you want us to buy special nail polish and walk around dipping our fingers into drinks? Do you want us to roll around in a fucking tin bubble? Oh, no, no. That’s extreme (damn feminists always getting all riley). You want us to count our drinks. Ummm, bro, how many have YOU had? You want us to stay at the side of a friend at all times. Ummm, bro, we wanna make more friends too without fear of rape when we walk outside of the periphery of vision. So then you say, but frats are traps. So, ya know, just don’t go to the parties. Again, please excuse me while I dig a tunnel to the nearest safe house with padded walls and locked doors. But, ok, let’s take this on. First, while I am not arguing the toxicity of a Greek culture on campus, I am arguing that rape does not only happen at frat parties. Far from it. So – just avoid all parties? Umm, what about partner rape? What about date rape? What about gang rape in trailers outside of town? What about the guy who broke into dorm rooms last academic year and fondled women? Should they have inserted those barbed contraptions into their vagina IN CASE someone came into their room to fondle them? There are too many situations where assault happens for this to be a valid argument, and it completely obscures the fact that you are once again asking that a vulnerable population take EXTRA care to ensure those with power don’t make a boo boo. Ah, but that’s not what you are saying. You are just asking we ladies exercise a little more caution. You are just asking that, instead of pointing out bad behavior and expecting more of humanity, we take care of those with bad behavior by removing temptation for them. But – man – we aren’t a cookie you just get to bite into and by you asking that we just exercise a little more caution you are, by proxy, stating we are that cookie. We are an object made for consumption, right? And finally, to the argument of women rapists. Yes, yes there are women who rape. There are far less women than men. I know you gave me a right-wing website to check out, but how about you check out the many that contradict that right-wing site. Here it is – rape happens to every population. In every culture there are rapists. Rapists exist in every gender group, in every race, in every class. If we continually try to point out what the survivor could have done differently we are going to continually wind circles around us in a never-ending series of “but what about this” or “what if the survivor did this differently” and nothing will change. Nothing will change because this impacts EVERYONE and every reality is different. We would need lifetimes to trace the circles we’ve drawn with our arguments for more caution and the counter-argument of “marital rape” or the like. Yet, if we expect more of people, if we say DON’T RAPE and reinforce that message with our actions and our consumption and our legislation (a blog for another time) then maybe – just maybe – we can start to see some change. But we have to change the conversation in order to change the culture, and saying that women (or any survivor) should have just known better is tired. You are capable of more. I’m a feminist and I know it to be true. Change the conversation.

I want to talk about my skin. It was stretched wide across my form for years – protecting a woman who at her largest weighed in at over 330 pounds. After I lost weight the skin formed colonies on my body that resemble pockets of fat, even though I was young, wore binding materials, rubbed moisturizers on my body, and exercised regularly. Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly frustrated with how my body looks, I pull the skin out into tents and stare in morbid fascination at its limpness. Skin is unlike fat in that you can pull it out far from the body. It takes on a mind of its own during movement, swishing one way while simultaneously swishing another. When you bend over it hangs loose, folding in on itself in certain places and draping down in others.

To date I have excess skin on my: **arms **thighs **abdomen **upper back **small of my back.

I had two rolls right below my breasts, but they were removed years ago because the rash that resulted was very painful and prone to infections that spread down my stomach – resulting in an angry red battlefield of heated splotches. I tried various medications to alleviate this, but each one did little to nothing to improve the problem – some even made it worse. So those folds were taken from me seven years ago. As a reminder I have a large scar that stretches from armpit to armpit. There’s a V in the center. When this skin was taken from me my breasts were made smaller, but I did not consent to a breast reduction. Also as a reminder there are two tents below my armpits with little bulbs in the center – these are called “dog ears” by surgeons. I can have them removed, but would likely pay upwards of $1,000 or more to do so. Instead I am a dedicated lingerie shopper who can, at sight, size-up a bra to determine if the band is wide enough for me to tuck the “dog ears” into. A large portion of my self-presentation preparation and execution exists of me tucking and determining. Going to the gym is a special little horror. I have to wear particular underwear that, again, binds me. This isn’t vanity. This is so the rashes and infections that would result from movement are somewhat alleviated though not completely avoided. Also, the humiliating smacking noise isn’t quite as loud, allowing me to focus more on form and less on who might be snickering beside me. When I go shopping I am careful to purchase particular materials – often man made despite the kindness cotton and linen show to skin. I own a small fortunes worth of binders and shapers to disguise the two back flaps on my upper back as well as the roll on my abdomen. These garments are what I imagine hell to feel like. If I buy the wrong cut they roll. If I buy a size too small my ribs scream each time I sit and stand. If I buy a size too large they roll. Sometimes I feel like one deep breath will cause them to bust at the seams. I have even daydreamed it would be so. Often times I refuse them and buy clothes a size larger than needed. Because some of my breasts were removed I often have to pin at the armpits or layer with tanks because I have to shop to fit the roll at my abdomen, which is a full size larger than my upper body. Of course all of my dresses and skirts must be worn with bloomers. While thigh rub is a serious reality for most people, the skin does aggravate the issue. That is because skin moves differently, and in different directions. It clucks with each step. Tights aren’t enough, because holes are soon wear through them. My arm flaps (called bat wings…charming) cause me no physical irritation. They are the only loose skin that does not. Instead they challenge me every time I wish to go out the door in a sleeveless top or dress. One time, while working in the kitchen of a pizza place, the owner asked if I lost a lot of weight. Yeah, I told him. He pointed at my arms and said he’s seen those reality shows where people lose a lot of weight and they always have “flabby” arms after. I gave him a half smile and generous grunt and turned away from the fryers. He continued to go on about how I should wear these skin tents like “badges of honor.” I’ve heard and still do hear that a lot. In an ideal situation I would say, yeah, sure. That sounds great. I am damn proud and I worked damn hard. Yet here I am just frying up some chicken wings and there you are commenting on my body. It might be a different kind of comment than “fat ass” but it is bred from the same fascination to consume and comment upon someone else’s form when it strays from the tight skin we are accompanied to expecting. Additionally, I was, at the time, dedicated to an arm routine that did little to tighten the skin despite various promises from trainers and online advice forums (I spent what is probably at least a year of my life researching how I could re-shape myself without surgery). My boss’s comments, though I thought him a kind and often considerate human, were a reminder that I’ll never pass as someone who, at one time, didn’t weigh nearly twice what I do now. I will always have marks that indicate the years I spent shamed in public spaces. I will never, despite effort, be free of skin flaps or – if I were to ever invest the thousands to restructure my body – generous scars. Sometimes I research the costs of each procedure I would need were I to make my body resemble how it would look had I always weighed what I do now. It’s more than I have ever made in a year. Then I pretend I can look at them like “badges of honor,” but each time someone stares at my arms I fold into myself and blush a little. Granted, they are often looking at my tattoos, but the chance that it could be those delightful bat wings sends me into automatic tuck and cover mode. I realize that what partially prevents me from viewing my body as something to be revered for its power and transformation is an insidious ideal of beauty that locks one image as the trifecta. I haven’t met a single person who meets this ideal, but everyone I’ve discussed it with (I am including men) is impacted by it or has been. Yet I am not going to talk about this poisonous ideal, because really – I talk about it a lot and I will gladly talk with you about it too – just send an email my way. Instead I want to talk about repetition. My skin complicates self-love not only because of the ideal, but also because the efforts I have put into my transformation, the resources I have dedicated, and the daily struggle to maintain it doesn’t show through – least of all to myself. It isn’t solely about meeting or even coming close to an ideal. It is also about living inside of a large body your entire life, being shamed for that body, hating that body … only to occupy a smaller body that still resembles the larger body. I still have to consider fabrics. Skin hangs over jeans in a manner similar to the way my fat used to, because skin is so pliable it even creeps and hangs over jeans that are too large. This is further complicated by the fact that my two back flaps fall right above my waist, giving me what I begrudgingly refer to as “flapjacks” even when I am wearing over-sized garments. Also, shirts cling to my back flaps (which would cost $5500 out of pocket to remove because insurance won’t cover that procedure) in the same way it clung to the fat roll that used to be there. I can’t partake in vigorous exercise without binding my body because it smacks the same way it used to when it was fat instead of skin. When I lift bare arms in public the skin swishes from side to side. When I am in intimate situations I cover myself with my arms, stretch my back long, and apologize profusely for the way that I look. I believe women are programmed to apologize – especially when we can’t make ourselves smaller as we are so often encouraged to do, but I really did think the apologies would cease when I lost the weight. They haven’t. Sometimes, because of my strange sense of humor, I contemplate writing a disclaimer card that I would give to lovers before the lights get low. When I get into relationships my partners have to have “the talk,” where I tell them that sometimes I rage in front of the mirror when, binders and shapers aside, I can’t find a way to hide the “badges of honor” that fall over me. When getting ready for I night out I encourage them to avoid the dressing area until I reappear. I don’t want them to see the overwhelming frustration that is marked by throwing garments, cussing, and sometimes crying. Even in situations where I am engaged in conversation with folks (such as seminars, meetings, etc…) I have noticed that I have a tendency to cross my arms. A professor once shamed me for this -- saying I should uncross my arms and “stop being so defensive.” I covered by saying I was cold (this was partially true, it was quite frigid in that house), but we were critiquing my paper and when multiple eyes are on me I have a tendency to cross my arms in the hope that they won’t look down to where they might see the multiple folds of skin whispering through fabric. The crossed arms are a barrier when there is no desk to hide behind. I avoid this in the classroom through layering kimonos, blazers, and cardigans. I avoid sitting down so the lumps don’t bunch. I find that, even after losing 140 pounds and keeping it off for 8 years, I am still working to bind myself. This is why the skin matters. This is why wearing the marks of weight loss as “badges of honor” isn’t possible – because to do so it would mean always illustrating a willingness to share my story and discuss my body. I spent decades either discussing my body or hiding when folks were rabidly critiquing my body. Going out in public with my skin flaps showing as “badges of honor” means inviting more stares, critiques, and questions - though they may be different than those that followed my obese form they still come from the same problematic structure that encourages us to belittle difference or continually center it as spectacle. This spectacle is often used as a celebratory tool to prop up those “why didn’t they just lose the weight” questions or as a warning to others to never get fat in the first place. While some days are certainly better than others, and I do feel much better about myself and my journey, it is important that we discuss why we expect folks who have lost weight to perform the skinny fat person role - someone there for our educational benefit. It is time we stop asking people why they didn’t lose weight sooner or how they lost it and instead just listen to what they want to say – trust me, if someone wants to talk about their weight loss with you they will invite you to participate. I often do. But pointing out someone’s skin – or hearing about their weight loss and interrogating them without invitation into what is essentially a personal and sometimes painful portion of their lives – only serves to situate these individuals as objects to learn from and symbols to hold others against. I don’t want anyone held against me, because I spent my life being held against others. So, if you want to ask a question without invitation I implore you to ask how we, as socially inspired actors, can change the conversation surrounding obese bodies without consuming the scars of transformation as an inspiring gimmick (here’s looking at you Biggest Loser).

When I was larger and I would discuss my troubles with others – the topics ranging everywhere from body shame to small theatre seats – people would often ask “well, why don’t you just lose the weight.” I want to discuss the complexities of this question and why it is highly problematic. First, the implication present in this question is that slender bodies are better and thus this question contributes significantly to the propagation of violent beauty myths that imprison what I imagine to be a majority of individuals. Asking “why don’t you just lose the weight” instead of asking why seats aren’t made larger, for example, illustrates a complacency with the ways in which bodies are surveilled and shamed through spatial organizing, media ideals, fashion policing, and the like. Through asking this question you are essentially stating that you think the suffocating ideal of thinness that is enforced in every public and most private places is not only apt but desirable. Instead we should be asking why our spaces are organized in the manner that they are, why large bodies intimidate folks, and what capital gains from forcing a size 6 down women’s throats … just to name a few. Second, this question wholly supports a flawed and dangerous vision of ability that finds footing on the foundation of the meritocracy. It obscures the ways in which many folks can’t “just” lose weight due to ability, age, health issues, income, employment demands etc… I lost my weight through diet and exercise. I lived off of protein bars, chicken, tuna, and green vegetables. I spent three times as much money on groceries doing this. To do this I had to sacrifice already scarce leisure activities, and ended up with credit card debt as well. Even so, I was privileged to have access to a credit card and a job that paid me enough to invest in my health through clean eating. Also, I worked only one job, so food preparation was possible. Before losing weight I often worked two and sometimes three jobs. I ate on the go and I ate what was fast and pre-packaged. I was poor, so when I made friends with fast food workers in the mall they would slip me free or discounted fried toxicity. When you are hungry, a processed sandwich that doesn’t mold is still far better than nothing at all. It also fills you more than an apple – and they cost the same. You figure out ways to satiate your hunger through spending less and obtaining quick meals. I also had access to a kitchen with working appliances and pots and pans. Years before my weight loss I spent a few months living out of my car, which prevented any form of healthy eating. You can’t eat a salad for lunch or chicken for dinner without a refrigerator to store it in, a stove to cook it on, and a pan to cook it in. When I finally had enough for a place I was working all of the time, so again the temporal luxury of food preparation that is necessary for weight loss is something not available to all. If one also considers that most obese individuals are of poor or working classes we can begin the trace the ways in which systems of capital make it near impossible for vulnerable bodies to eat healthy let alone lose weight if they desire to. I was also able to purchase a gym membership. Let us also consider that I am also largely able bodied, and while I was very large I was still able to nail an elliptical three or four times a week. These are only some of the considerations that questions such as “why don’t you just lose weight” obscure. When we ask this questions we are erasing the complexities and vulnerabilities that folks navigate every day. When we ask this question we are assuming another human being exists in the same ways we do. I wish to stress that assuming this does not make someone a villain, as it is common to judge the world through our own experiences. Yet it is also comfortable to do that. What this question does is erase the discomfort necessary to learn, grow, and listen. Third, this question further interrogates bodies that are shamed and humiliated on a daily basis. This question places blame on the individual who exists in particular, political circumstances instead of on systems of power and inequity that work to keep individuals in dire straits. This question, and those similar to it (such as why don’t you go on a diet, why don’t you get a surgery, why don’t you try walking an extra mile) propel conversations of inadequacy and ineptitude while simultaneously seeking to erase stories of great import. Those questions contribute to moments where young girls are daydreaming of cutting away their flesh. They contribute to barnyard noises shouted out of car windows. They contribute to photos that are cruelly posted online with captions like “someone let the pig out of the barn.” While they often come from a place of good intentions, they – like telling someone they are beautiful in “their own way” – are poison. They are implicated in the maintenance of pain and cruelty. They are implicated in a routine and toxic conversation that states some bodies are worth more than others. Furthermore, they have the potential to instill a sense of failure into people who desperately need encouragement. Each time this question is asked there is an air of judgment beneath it that cuts and burns. I encourage people to consider that not every person who is deemed “large” wants to lose weight, and that’s ok. I have heard the argument about health and higher costs of health care (we healthy folks shouldn’t pay more for them). What of individuals who utilize tanning beds and further their risk of cancer? What of the folks who often wear heels and further their risks of damaged leg tendons and nerves? My point is not that we should start interrogating those folks. My point is that we should stop judging others based on what they do or do not have on their body. My point is that we live in a society that is incredibly dangerous. From air pollutants, water contamination, GMO’s, and streams of radiation emanating from our various electronic devices – we are all going to need healthcare and there isn’t a single way to guarantee which body will need more or who will pay for it. Nor should that be our concern. Our concern should be securing a system of ethical care that nurtures all bodies equally without reference to those who can pay. Our concern should be cultivating a kinder and more accepting world that doesn’t encourage humans to traumatize others with their cruelty. The various mechanisms of power in place are really quite adept at inflicting trauma – they don’t need assistance and we should, as socially conscious actors, resist the hell out of them. We should begin creating a better space where we talk to strangers instead of belittling them; where we help someone struggling instead of walking by; where we call out problematic statements, jokes, and questions instead of pretending we didn’t hear. We are all guilty, but we should release our guilt. Guilt serves no purpose other than keeping us frozen. Instead we should seek out the stories of others as opposed to assuming we know them. We should dig for the problematic questions and work to eradicate them. We should start a new conversation.

In 2005 I sojourned to Rhode Island from Utica, NY to see a rock and roll band play. I was with two good friends, both of whom were attractive, kind, and much thinner than I. I always had a terrible habit of comparing myself to the people I was with – feeling somewhat misplaced and always far too visible when my girth was placed alongside their more slender forms. On the way to the show we stopped off at a rest area – the three of us stood in front of the mirrors atop the sinks and primped, as they say. Of course as big as I felt, when I looked at them I felt bigger – more out of place because there was no space big enough to hold me. There was a scale in the bathroom – one of those pay $.25 and get your weight carnival-esque type machines. I avoided scales. It had been years since I stepped on one. I decided to try. I weighed over 330 pounds. I knew I had gained some since leaving high school, but I didn’t realize it was so much. I was crushed. I felt nauseous. My self-disgust reached new heights in the public restroom of a parking area on the highways between New York and Rhode Island. My only sanctuary was the metal walls of a stall that millions of strangers had visited over time. I turned to my friend and asked her if she could tell that I weighed so much. She said she could but it was ok because I was beautiful in my own way and fuck anyone who said different. ***Please, if you take anything from this blog, I hope you take this --- avoid telling people that they are beautiful “in their own way.” Avoid telling someone that, while they are not pretty like girls in magazines, they have their “own look” about them. You shine a light on the fact that they don’t fit, and while these words come from a place of good intentions they are poison. They are a condemnation. It is not about supporting the status quo. It is not about buying into ideals. It is not about wishing to fit a fabricated and violent mold. It is about breaking those things. It is about not being compared against something that's done nothing except haunt you. It is about not feeling as if there is something wrong with you. It is about not being made to feel like the unwilling spectacle or cabinet of curiosities even around those closest to you.***I went into those public metal walls and I closed my eyes. I imagined cutting myself away with scissors and tying the pieces back together. Even the scars would be an improvement. I almost drove back, but I always felt at home at shows. In a room of misfits – tattoos, mohawks, torn clothes, missing teeth – I didn’t feel hyper-visible. When the dance began it didn’t matter what you wore or looked like, it mattered that you could keep pace and move or stand back in grand appreciation. I always kept the pace up; it was part of my resistance. I decided to go. I was wearing a mauve shirt cut wide at the shoulders with a black camisole underneath. This particular shirt had black felt birds scattered around the neckline and I loved it because it was hip. Finding great clothes when you’re obese and on a strict budget is pretty much a modern purgatory filled with shame, frustration, and often times a good deal of bathroom and/or fitting room breakdowns.It seems retailers and fashion designers are hell-bent on dressing obese bodies in denim button downs with embroidered birdhouses, because it hides the body. It screams that the body isn’t sexual – it isn’t a threat and it is laughable. It is something to decorate in mellow patterns because that body shouldn’t want to stand out – it should want to hide and fold itself into pastel colored pop tents. There is something ultimately comical about affordable plus-size clothing – always in pastels or grayscale with three-daisy buttons or some other ridiculous and infantile accompaniment (like birdhouses). When a body is dressed in these garments it becomes safer. These clothing styles state that the wearer is like a grandmother or a child, they are not a threat, and warm. They are not witty, sexual, or confident. Skirts are never cut short or tight, pants often have elastic waist bands, and shirts avoid low necklines. The goal is to cover the skin as much as possible, to suffocate it underneath layers that deny the existence of mass. Of course there are many great shops dedicated to plus-size fashion, and there are some cute styles there. You pay for those styles. Such stores are not as common as the local Sears and they are far more expensive. This too states that if you are fat you are going to pay. You are going to venture away from the skinny shoppers and you are going to spend an entire paycheck on two outfits – all so you don’t look like an Easter egg when you walk out the door. Even stores that have a plus-size section divide the store so that the thin folks and the large folks don’t look through the same racks. As an obese woman you are relegated to an over-there space – it is easier to keep track of the bodies then, and it keeps bodies in their “place”.So, I was wearing this shirt that I was really quite fond of and in the midst of the dance the shirt was pulled widely around me. The boat neckline that was such a refreshing change from the chokingly high crew neck wasn’t a smart choice for a rock and roll show. Let me explain that, while I often had individuals grab my body or clothing maliciously while oinking at me or making some other such barnyard noise, this was not what happened here. When you dance you lose your footing, you start to fall, and you grab hold of whatever is near. When you dance you are surrounded by bodies – all sweating and bumping against one another. A casualty of the dance is torn or stretched and pulled clothes. Yet I felt vulnerable and exposed and deeply shamed. No one was looking at me (that I knew of) because the high from the show was too thick. But there I was, my shirt drooped to near waist and I wanted to cry. I had a brilliant time dancing, but all the parts I had been trained to hide were in view – the sleeves had fallen so my shoulders were showing, my fleshy arms available for all. The camisole, while covering my breasts, was dreadfully tight and clung to the roll of fat below my chest. I remember quickly drawing the shirt up and tucking as much of the neckline as I could under my bra and camisole straps. Then I ran out the nearest door, both from heat and the determination not to be seen.But the door led right to the entrance of the tour bus. This was serendipitous in its own way because it gave me the opportunity to meet the band. Yet while hugging two of my (then) favorite musicians I was painfully aware of my body overflowing around them. I flushed with shame when I asked the lead singer to sign my ankle (it was symmetrical to a tattoo a have on the other leg) and I had to hold onto the shoulder of a friend to both stay balanced and support my leg with my other hand. I decided on the way home – both riding the waves of euphoria that follow a great show and considering how my body shame took such joy from me – that I had to change something. Something had to give. I had come to this realization multiple times before. I lived my life dreaming of a different body. I even wrote a story about a magical portal that takes people to a factory where they can assemble their form from doll parts for the price of their empathy. It was a price I probably would have paid then. Unfortunately, the real-time monetary price to lose weight – and make no mistake, it takes incredible financial resources to healthily drop pounds from your form – was too high. It would be another two years before I had the ability to do so.

In less than one week I am having a fold of skin removed from my abdomen. It is the remnant of the loss of 140 pounds. It is a marker of how far I’ve come. My shame over it is a reminder of how far I have yet to go. As the surgery draws near I find myself juggling complex thoughts regarding transformation, shame, embodiment, and voice – I totter between wishing to share my story and silencing it. It is not easy to admit that I am having cosmetic surgery, and it is not easy to discuss the deep-rooted body dysmorphia I navigate, or the impact that has had on my selves and on my relationships.

I offer these words to begin a conversation I feel we need to have – about how we see our selves, others, and the treatments that result. I offer these words as a political statement: every story has worth and perhaps with one sharing another will be encouraged to do the same. Maybe we can work towards a bridge across our experiences without consuming the life of another.

The plan is to write a series of blogs – with great ambition I have decided one per day until the surgery – that details many stages of my transformation and the new worlds I have traveled since losing weight. I do hope you’ll join the conversation.

Part I – Big Body Matters

In Kindergarten I weighed 120 pounds. I remember the school nurse lecturing me and making a phone call to my parents. I didn’t understand then why this was a big deal or why we should have to talk about it so much. I knew I was bigger than the other children, but that didn’t seem to matter before I entered school. I realized quite quickly that it did matter. My body, or rather the ways in which my body occupied space (too much), did matter to those around me. It was too large. I moved too slowly. I breathed too heavily.

The taunts started at five and lasted until twenty-three, when I began a journey to lose weight.

School was hellish. I imagine it is for most of the misfits and wayward souls. I could be wrong about that, though. I don’t think I am. People screamed out my name (Stephanie) as Step-on-me “or don’t because the fatass will break your back.” Boys grabbed at the folds of excess weight in the hallways and laughed. Sometimes when walking through the halls people would oink or moo behind me. Always there was a reminder that I didn’t quite fit into the world the way people wished that I would. I couldn’t fold in on myself, and I didn’t want to shrivel underneath their words.

I cried on the last day of classes when I watched my high school fade in the side mirror. It was joy. I weighed over 300 pounds yet still found a space to believe in a different, less painful existence. I thought things would be different now – as if those halls were the only place folks are expected to cut themselves down under bodily expectations. Of course this was quite wrong and foolishly naïve, but we need hope to get us by and sometimes we store too much of it in the wrong place.

What happened in hallways shifted onto the streets. People love to scream out of their car windows. “Buy a treadmill.” Of course fatass endured. I still don’t exactly understand the appeal of that particular taunt because, realistically, most asses are fat. It wasn’t just walking around my city - this happened everywhere. Folks in restaurants stared with morbid fascination while I ate. The clerk at the grocery store scrutinized each purchase made. The doctor shamed me. Employers asked if I thought I was “up to the pace” of retail. Eyes followed me around the mall where I worked, as if I were there for their entertainment – a body created for them to measure themselves against and praise their own form against my own. I was an unwilling spectacle.

Yet I presented myself as proud and fierce. I learned in school that if you broke in front of them you didn’t inspire mercy – you just waved blood under the nose of a very emaciated hound. They bit deeper when you broke. Perhaps guilt made them dig deeper, or power. Either way, I presented strong and full and sometimes convinced myself that I was. Underneath it all I hated myself. I stood in front of mirrors and cried a lot. I refused compliments that centered my physicality. I admired other, more beautiful bodies and day dreamed they were my own. And I was angry. I was angry nearly all of the time.

Most of all I was angry at myself for being angry, because I knew the taunts and occasional assaults were the result of minds supersaturated in a field of normality politics that excludes all – even those who embrace the rhetoric. I knew that centerfolds poisoned minds. I knew that money affords things not available to all. I knew that it wasn’t as much about me as it was about the relentless stream of messages that proclaim how we and others should be. And I knew these things deep in my soul, but that doesn’t change the effects of cruelty or the brutality of self-hate. It doesn’t mitigate the moments where you desperately wish to be someone different.

In the end it came down to a decision – lose the weight or continue to break myself down in front of glass and in the lonely corners where folks couldn’t see (and sometimes where they could). Now, that sounds simple. I want to clarify that the decision, the journey, the maintenance … none of it is simple. It is mired in hard choices, demands for resources, and new sets of shame and guilt alongside celebration. It is, quite simply, a road you never stop walking. It is a voice that carries, and it is rich and terrible in both beauty and trauma.

Author

Stevie N. Berberick is a doctoral candidate in the College of Communications at The Pennsylvania State University. Stevie often finds herself hostessing solitary dance parties in the kitchen, playing with her chocolate lab Serenity, or romancing a tattoo machine at the local zap shop -- when she's not reading, researching, and/or writing, that is.